Read Online McKenzie by Penny Zeller - Free Book Online Page B

Biddie could be scatterbrained at times.
    “Biddie?” her mother asked. “What does Biddie have to do with the letter?”
    “I just remembered that I hadn’t seen her today,” said McKenzie.
    “You haven’t seen her because she’s not here.”
    “She’s not here?”
    “No, she is ill today. At least, that’s what she says. You know hired help. Completely unreliable in times of need,” her mother said, rolling her eyes.
    “She’s ill?” asked McKenzie. Of all days for Biddie to be ill, this had to be the day.
    “Yes, McKenzie, she’s ill. She stayed home today. Now, let’s stop speaking of something so insignificant and return to the matter at hand. Who is the letter from?”
    “Oh, yes, the letter,” said McKenzie. “I’d almost forgotten.” She turned the envelope over in her hand. Quick, McKenzie, think of something, anything! “Poor, poor woman,” McKenzie said after a moment, shaking her head and closing her eyes.
    “What poor woman?” her mother asked, sounding curious.
    “The one who wrote me this letter.”
    “A poor woman wrote you that letter?” her mother asked. “I will say one thing for the poor woman—she has nice penmanship. But, never mind that. Tell me the details.”
    “May we sit in the parlor, Mother?” McKenzie asked. “My feet are tired from shopping all day.”
    “Of course,” she said, following her daughter to the parlor.
    McKenzie sighed. Please, Mother, don’t ask me to read you the letter, she thought to herself. She clutched Zach’s letter and sat down on the sofa next to her mother.
    “Now, do tell,” her mother demanded.
    “The story is so very sad, Mother. You may need your handkerchief,” said McKenzie, covering her mouth with her hand.
    “Go on,” said her mother.
    “You see, there is a young woman in the Montana Territory whom I learned of through some of my charity work. Her name is…Isadora Jones.”
    “Isadora? What a dreadful name,” said Florence. “You’re right, I will need a handkerchief.”
    “Anyway, Mother, as I was saying, I learned of Isadora through my charity work. She is a young woman with eight children—”
    “Eight children? Goodness gracious! How old is she?”
    “My age.”
    “And she has eight children? You’re right—she is a poor woman!”
    “Mother, times have been difficult for Isadora,” sniffled McKenzie. “So difficult, indeed. You see, two of her children are twins.”
    “Twins?” her mother exclaimed. “That would make life difficult. I was always thankful I didn’t have twins.”
    McKenzie nodded, reaching into the depths of her imagination to add to the story, being sure to make it tragic yet credible. “The twins are very ill. They have had difficulties since birth. As a matter of fact, one of them cannot even walk.”
    “How old are they?”
    “I believe Isadora told me in her letters that they are four years old. Not only that, but Isadora’s husband was injured when he fell off a horse last year. He hasn’t been able to work.”
    “He shouldn’t have been riding a horse,” her mother declared.
    “Because he hasn’t been able to work, the family has no food and no clothing. Their only shelter is a meager cabin with but two rooms. It’s dreadful, Mother….” McKenzie pretended to cry then, burying her face in a handkerchief.
    “I had no idea,” said her mother. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her own handkerchief. “What can we do to help?”
    McKenzie lifted her head and faced her mother. “The church has been supporting her, and I have been acting as a liaison between the two parties. I knew you wouldn’t mind my corresponding with her, because of your kind and generous nature. Please don’t be angry with me. I was only doing what we privileged are called to do, and that is to provide charity and encouragement to those in need.”
    “Now, don’t cry, McKenzie; it’s not becoming of a proper lady. I’m not angry.”
    “Oh, thank you, Mother. It is my guess